Scarlett Orion Black
by PadfootProngsandMoony'sGirl
Summary: Sirius Black had a daughter just before he died. His wife killed herself shortly after childbrith, leaving Harry one more thing of Black's to take care of. With the Dark Times finally gone for good, this little girl could be what helps him move on from tragedy.


ooooooooooooooooo

It was strange, being back at Hogwarts. It had been months since Hermione had last walked the halls, but it felt like years. She was seventeen then, a child running on a mad adrenaline rush caused by the acute need to protect what was hers.

She smiled joylessly. _Voldemort. _Harry had always been so adamant about saying the name; there was a certain sense of pride in knowing that she was becoming like him, if only a little bit. Harry was another person she fought for. Literally, _for._ Uncharacteristic as it was for her, she'd blindly done as he commanded a countless number of times, trusting that her own mind would over-think what his understood without effort. People thought it was because he was the boy who lived, but Hermione knew he'd have been the end of Voldemort without the grim birthright. The heart, the instinct. _That_ was what made him The Chosen One.

Next to her, Ron squeezed her hand. She fought for him, too, him and his dozens of silly relatives that had welcomed her into their lives with more acceptance than Ron himself had done, at times. It didn't make much sense even to her, how Hermione could have fallen in love with Ron, not only with the constant comparison of Harry, but when the two were such opposites. But she had, and he had, and they were.

They were walking down the corridors that they knew better than their own homes, but again it may well have been foreign. It seemed Hermione couldn't look at a picture on the wall without remembering the way it had looked the last time she'd seen it.

The last Battle.

They were walking up stairs now, up a hidden staircase behind a handsome suit of armor, lead by the new Headmistress McGonagal. Her back was tall and erect as ever, and it was strange that something Hermione had once been so intimidated by was now a source of comfort to her. If the Dark Times hadn't broken McGonagal, Hermione wouldn't let them break her. The Headmistress was dressed in all black robes with a tall witches hat, as she always had, but when she lead the couple into her office they both were surprised to find that, in nearly a year, nothing had been changed.

Snape hadn't changed much either, apparently. Dumbledore's stubborn whimsy still reflected every wall, still beckoned from every corner. His spirit, Hermione knew, would forever remain in this room. He had been a special man; one Hermione had been proud to know even if it was only through Harry.

McGonagal walked to the far side of the room and sat behind the desk. "Sit," she gestured to the two chairs in front of in, undoubtedly placed there in preparation for their arrival.

They sat.

They waited.

McGonagal took a deep breath, clasping her hands together and staring at them both with her familiar severity. "I know this must all seem very odd to you. Me, asking to meet you in the middle of the year."

"A bit, yeah." Ron admitted. He, like Hermione, didn't seem nearly as affected by her authority as he once had been. He'd stopped being a child, too.

She nodded. Then abruptly, "How's Potter?"

Silence.

She looked from one to the other, icy eyes boring into each of their skulls and reading what was written inside even if they didn't say it out loud. She sighed heavily, and dropped her eyes. "What is it?" she asked. But again, it was as if she already knew the answer.

"He—isn't getting over it, Professor," Hermione said uncertainly, trying to describe what had become of her friend. "He can't seem to let it go. He can't look forward."

Ron snorted. "He can't even look _straight_; he's never bloody sober."

Hermione shot him a look, but McGonagal didn't bat an eye. "Where is he?" she asked.

"He sold Black's house, and now he lives in a smaller one near the Burrow, and where Ron and I live," Hermione explained.

"We don't ever see him, though." Ron muttered.

Which earned him another look.

"It's just that he's so _sad_ all the time," Hermione continued, almost beseechingly. "He feels guilty. He's always talking about the people that were lost, and he thinks it's because of him. Remus, Tonks, Sirius…everybody, really."

"Even people he never really knew, like the Longbottoms and his parents," Ron picked up, sounding the annoyed to his girlfriend's pity. " Some man that owned an ice cream shop; some driver on the Knight bus. Any random death that he reads in the newspaper, and it's his fault. He thinks anybody that mattered is dead," he added bitterly.

Hermione knew that Ron was taking Harry's behavior more personally than he should, but then it was hard not to. Theperson who as a boy had saved both their lives on countless occasions, had survived every misfortune and carried on, withstood every cruelty and remained good, had given up as a man. It was impossible, and yet it was right in front of them whenever they darkened his doorstep. Ron and Hermione were both paying regular visits to the Ministry, making more than their fair bit as Aurors—being members of the Golden Trio, it was laughable that either of them be required to finish school or even pass the auror exams—but Harry never left his home. Owls were pecking on his windows day and night, the Minister of Magic himself had knocked on his door more than once, and Harry wouldn't leave his bedroom. The only people he would see were Hermione and Ron, and even then he was a ghost of himself.

"I've been reading some books on psychology," Hermione said hesitantly, "And it looks to me like he's developed post traumatic stress disorder. He has panic attacks, and hallucinations…he won't leave his home. Not to mention, he's spent the last seven years of his life under intense scrutiny and pressure, with this one being hanging over his head. Everything he did was because of Voldimort, and now he has nothing left."

"He has us!" Ron burst out. "Has he forgotten that? He's got a whole bloody life—"

"That's enough, Mr. Weasley," McGonagal said quietly.

He fell silent, clenching his jaw.

"There is something I feel I must tell you," she continued, pushing a large book towards them. Hermione peered at its cover. It was blank, bound with heavy black leather and thicker than anything she could find on the shelves of a library.

"Phineas?" McGonagal asked, not looking at the portrait to whom she was referring. "It seems you have a misunderstanding to explain." She nodded to Hermione. "Open the book."

She did so, and was quite surprised at its contents.

"What is it?" Ron asked, leaning forward.

"It's a list of names," Hermione murmured, confusion turning to awe as she scanned the collumns. "It's _the _list of names."

Lovingly, she turned a page. It seemed to date back to the very beginning, back thousands of years when the school first opened. "Isn't it, Professor?" she looked up.

With the note of pride in her eyes Hermione had seen in the orbs of everyone she'd demonstrated her intelligence to, the Professor nodded. Then she gave them something else. This was a sheet of parchment, not nearly as aged as the book that they held, with a small bit of writing on it. "It's the document sending Sirius Back to a lifetime in prison," she explained. "The year was nineteen-eighty-one."

Ron, who had reading the names over her shoulder, looked up curiously.

"And this," she continued, giving them another one," Is the letter sent from Askaban when he was reported missing. Nineteen ninety two."

Now Hermione looked up, as well. "Professor, I don't understand."

McGonagal nodded. "I wouldn't expect you to." She took the pieces away, and replaced them with several photos. Tears sprung to Hermione's eyes when she saw the faces that smiled up at her, the same ones in each picture, carefree and beautiful. Lily and James. Sirius.

And…

"Who's that girl?" Ron asked. "She's in all of them."

"Her name was Dulcey Knight," McGonagal explained. "She didn't attend the school all seven years. The Knights were known blood traitors in their time, and they spent most of Dulcey's childhood on the run. Eventually, her entire family was killed. She moved in with Sirius and James and Lily, who shared an apartment together after graduation until James and Lily got married."

Hermione couldn't speak. She was so tired of hearing about the stories of death; she was positive she couldn't take another one. She tried to wipe away the tears without Ron seeing her.

"Nobody quite knew how Sirius escaped from Askaban," McGonagal said quietly, "But everyone knew that he was in love with Dulcey, and she with him. And everyone knew how gifted she was." She held out her hands for the photos. Dumbly, Hermione gave them to her.

"She disappeared the same year Sirius did."

"Wait," Ron said suddenly, brow burrowed. He was still focused on the court documents. "Sirius said he escaped when he saw Wormtail in the papers. That wasn't until ninety-four."

"Very good, Mr. Weasly," McGonagal approved. "That was the year Harry began to see him in his animal form. But there were two years in between that he wasn't seen. Dulcey was never seen at all."

"They were together, then," Hermione realized. "In hiding. Waiting."

"Exactly," McGonagal said. "He wouldn't have mentioned her in the times we all were in. It would have been safer for her to go on invisible. We still don't know what happened to Dulcey, but we know that she helped Sirius escape, and that they were together in the time they were both in hiding. We also," she added, raising her eyebrows pointedly, "Can infer by other clues that she was with him for a time in Godric's Hollow, as well. A great portion of his stay there he was completely without visitors, and with the charms placed over the house it would have been the safest place for her."

"Ahem!" The three of them looked back to find that one of the Portraits from the line of Headmasters was speaking. It was that of Phineas Black, one of the schools less popular of leaders and distant relative of Sirius. "I thought I was needed?" he asked irritably.

McGonagal smiled. "Indeed."

He cleared his throat. "It seems, children, that I gave the Potter boy a piece of information that was incorrect."

Next to her, Ron sat up straighter. "What was that?" he asked.

"Well," Phineas said nonchalantly, "I told him that the line of Blacks ended when Sirius died. Which _was,_" he added, shooting the Headmistress a look, "technically true. Once she's married, she'll drop the name, and the Black name is as good as dead."

Professor McGonagal responded, but Hermione couldn't hear. All she heard was silence as the world around her stopped spinning on its axis and hung still in the universe, still as it had the day in the courtyard when Harry and Voldimort circled each other, only one of them destined to breathe beyond those last few moments.

In her lap, the pages of the book began to turn, and Hermione glimpsed the names of every Hogwarts student in history to walk Hogwarts halls before it stopped as quickly as it started and stared up at her, willing her to read as so many books before it had done. It wasn't the last page with writing on it, but it was the second to last. Her eyes knew the name as soon as she read it, as if they'd already known what was coming.

_Scarlett Orion Black._

It was a long time before Hermione was able to look up. She could feel her frame trembling, but she couldn't seem to make it stop. The tears were back, but this time they did not fall. Instead they hovered, standing on the edges of her lids and blurring her vision. Through immobile lips, she somehow found the voice to whisper.

"Where is she?"

.

* * *

.

Harry didn't like the nun much, and he got the distinct impression that the feeling was mutual. For a lady who claimed to have dedicated the whole of her life to fitting the Lord's kindness and forgiveness, she didn't seem very nice. Admittedly, he didn't look a day older than his eighteen years, and no, the injury from his most recent conquest as an auror had left an unavoidable scar that grabbed his left side from collarbone to ear; his hair was looking even more windswept than usual due to his chosen transportation device, and he seriously doubted that it was a typical thing here for a single man under twenty to come strolling in and demanding custody of a small girl.

In fact, it probably hadn't happened at all, unless the bloke in question had certain sexual preferences and needed the girl for more than child-rearing purposes.

But regardless, this woman really had no business taking as long as she did working out the paperwork, glaring at him over the top of her over thick lenses and making loud sniffing noises whenever he so much as tapped a foot. Not to mention the length of time she took in actually locating the child, as if the two years Scarlett had been under their care hadn't happened at all. Not very nurturing, in his opinion, and certainly not warranting the reluctance in which she was leading him down the hall. The numerous pictures of Jesus could judge him, if they so wished, and stare him down from the frames in which they were rendered irritatingly motionless. At least _Jesus _had motive, Harry having had been to church a grand total of three times in his life.

Even then, though, it would be hard for the Holy Ghost himself to find fault in the manner Harry had pulled himself together these past few months. The second he'd found out about Scarlett, he'd stopped drinking, stopped wallowing, and pitched himself back into the world with the strength and energy of a Zeus, partaking in interviews and tea with the Minister of Magic, accepting the job offer given to him to be not just an auror, but head of the department, and even attending parenting classes with Bill and Fleur, who were expecting in October. He envied them.

For Bill and Fleur, everything was falling into place. They'd done the whole bit exactly right: first the jobs, then the marriage, then the stability, the pregnancy, the baby, and _then _a toddler. By the time their child would turn two, they would have had about five years to work up to it, to prepare and perfect.

Harry had the time it would take for the nun to open the door they'd stopped in front of. And, slow though she may be, that wasn't much.

Nope. No time at all.

He was inside in an instant, to fast even to breathe, in and surrounded.

It was a large room, brighter than and not as stuffy as the rest of what he'd seen on the place. Four long windows stood side by side along the far wall, and two more on the left. It was cloudy out, but they did give the room a certain sense of openness that he was sure made it a favorite of the children's. Chalkboards and toy chests leaned at the corners, abandoned nic-nacs cluttered the floor. There were dozens here, all girls, all young, with hair combed and ribboned and navy uniforms pleated. They stared at him with undisguised awe, though it was obvious from their neat appearances that he had been expected.

The nun stepped to the side and smiled at him coldly. Perhaps it was the paranoia, or maybe just an eagerness on his own part and not hers, but he thought he felt a dare pass from her to him.

He stepped forward, cautiously. The sound seemed so loud in a room this quiet that he swore they should have echoed. His eyes raked the room, but he was lost. McGonagal had shown him pictures of the mother, but he didn't know what she or Sirius had looked like as children, and no idea which parent she would take after even if he did. There hadn't been time for a breath before the woman had opened the door, and now that he did have the time his lungs turned to unpicked cotton in his chest.

But he ignored all that, and took another step.

Something sounded from the right, and it dragged the air that need so desperately to get out from Harry's throat. He took another breath and looked down to find a child so small it didn't seem right that she could walk hurdling toward him as fast as her wobbly legs could carry her. Unaccustomed to using her limbs as she was, the poor thing came crashing right into him, her head not even reaching his knee as it collided. She didn't seem hurt, though, or even phased. She just fell back on her bum and tilted her head all the way back, trying to see his face.

Again, Harry couldn't seem to get air.

He was staring down at this face…a face that, even so young, possessed the kind of proportioned, aristocratic features any pureblood would be proud to have.

Features clothed with skin as smooth and as white as milk and surrounded by thick ebony curls, falling elegantly around her cheeks with perfection that didn't seem real.

Black hair.

The crowning jewels of his treasure blinked up at him not with the haunted ghosts of a decade in Askaban, but not with the sparkling merriment of a Marauder either. They were grave, old eyes, mature beyond their few years and piercing him in a place that had never been touched before. A blue so pale and so bright that they weren't even a blue at all, nor a grey. They were, little sense though this made, somehow Sirius's eyes without being Sirius's eyes.

Black eyes.

Harry knelt down on his knees and took her torso in his hands, lifting her up and helping her get her legs back under her so she could stand. Stubbly finger gripped his wrists as she used them for balance, still holding him with those massive orbs. A few unshed tears stood in them, probably a knee-jerk reaction from the shock of falling. Yes, she looked about two years old, exactly the age the book said she would be. She would have been conceived just before Sirius died.

Suddenly Scarlett's eyes weren't the only ones that held tears.

Solemnly, she took her hands from his wrists and brought them to her neck, taking a chain from around it and pulling it from the inside of her shirt. It was quite odd looking, so gleaming and gaudy in the clumsy hands of an orphaned toddler. There was a heart shaped locket at the end of it, with a ruby sparkling in the middle. A notch pinched adorably in between Scarlett's eyebrows as she frowned in concentration, working on the clasp. Harry held back, tempted to help her but getting the distinct impression that, even at two, Scarlett hadn't been helped in a very long time.

With a little click of triumph, it finally opened. Smiling dazzlingly, she held it out to him. Reluctantly, Harry took one hand from where it had held her and held the locket instead.

Two hands waved ecstatically from either side, each belonging to a face that gave him goose bumps. His dad and his mum on one side and Sirius and Dulcey on the other, all of them beamed and mouthed his name gleefully, as if they knew exactly what was going on and couldn't have been more thrilled.

A tiny finger covered James's face. Harry looked up to find Scarlett's eyes searing him once again, mouth formed in a little o of curiosity.

Harry grinned, and shook his head. "No. That's not me. I'm his son. I'm here to take you-er, home." He paused here, partly to gauge her reaction and partly to swallow the lump in his throat. "Is…is that okay?"

.

* * *

.

The Burrow had far too many people in it. There was a time when this would have been a hardly unusual thing, what with the house not being particularly large in the first place due to salaries and due to the massive amount of children that the wife of the owner had bore. But lately the children had all grown up and the house had gotten emptier and emptier, so much so that even the ghoul had packed up and moved out to leave Mr. and Mrs. Weasley quite alone with their daughter, Ginny.

But in the past few hours, all that had changed. Now, not only were five of the Weasley boys back, but they had brought guests. There was Bill's wife Fleur, the odd assistant Percy worked with at the office, Charlie's girlfriend Electra, George's girlfriend Angelina, and Ron's fiancé Hermione. There was also Ginny's boyfriend Oliver, family friends Ted and Andromeda Tonks with their one year old grandson who was also called Ted, Ron's friend Neville, and Ginny's friend Luna.

This brought the Burrow's usual number of two or three to a staggering nineteen, but that was actually a significantly smaller number than the one everybody wanted. The one everyone wanted, actually, was around thirty. If people had their way, there would have been Fred, sixth Weasely son and twin to George, old Headmaster of Hogwarts Albus Dumbledore, James and Lily Potter, Alice and Frank Longbottom, Remus and Tonks Lupin, and Sirius and Dulcey Black. Or…whatever her last name had been. It _would _have been Black, anyway, had everything panned out the way that it should have, were it not for Voldimort.

But, then, again, if Voldimort had never done the things he had, there wouldn't have been a reason for celebration that day at the Burrow. Despite the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had never actually _met _several of the latter mentioned guests, nobody could deny that every one of them should have been there, gossiping in the kitchen or playing with the contraptions invented by the Weasely twins or the Marauders, laughing and arguing and being with family. Today, the dead were present as much as the living, moving the forefronts of everyone's skulls and sitting there, waiting like all the others.

It was a strained event, but everyone was trying to pretend that it wasn't. They ignored the souls of the departed in their brains, the rocks in their chests, the pounding in their ears. They were restless, moving around and trying to find something, anything, to distract themselves. For the Weasleys, who had grown up with what it means to be _truly _in chaos, the difference was almost tangible. There's always a sense of separation when you're actually _trying _to create an atmosphere of bustle. But for the others, and anyone looking in, the mayhem was as authentic as an original Picasso.

The kitchen, for example:

"Oh, God, this taste's _terrible_—"

"You're mad, Molly, let me try it—"

"No, darling, it's delicious!"

"Here, Hermione, don't you think it needs a little—"

"What about zees? I don't really think I 'ave gotten the hang of—"

"It's been years, Fleur, it's truly sad if you still don't know how to cook proper English—"

"Are you kidding? It's fine, Love, there's not need to worry."

"What he means is there's no way you'll ever cook as well as his mother so you might as well not bother—"

"Oh, yes, his mother cooks just _brilliantly—Ha!_ I can't even cook a decent roast—"

"Molly, it tastes great! Look, you're making Fleur feel bad about herself—"

"_That's _not difficult—"

"Ginny! I'd like to try _your _yorkshire pudding—"

"That's rich, Dad, you know she hasn't cooked since—"

"Oh, wait…"

"Never! Ginny's cooked since never!"

"Best you know what kind of gray, joyless, puddingless life you'll be getting yourself into, Oliver—"

"Oh just shut it, all of you—"

"Oi! Angelina! Get in here! I wanna make sure you don't starve me—"

"Something tells me that was hardly a danger, George—"

"Was that a dig at my weight? I'm offended!"

"Oh, _no_—"

"Look what you made her do!"

"You know, we really ought to have a house elf 'round here—"

"Where's bloody Kreecher when you need him?"

"I still don't think the soup looks quite right—"

"Will somebody _please _hand me my wand so I can clean this up? Obviously nobody else is going to—"

"Here, Hermione—"

"Why haven't you gotten rid of all the nargles here?"

"Vat is a—"

"Nothing, Fleur, don't worry about it—"

"It's quite complicated, I know, but all you have to do is—"

"Gah!"

"Good Lord."

"_Luna_—"

"How on earth did this happen?"

"There's got to be an easier way to do this…"

"Nope, Ginny, there isn't, told you you should have gotten lessons from mum when you had the chance—"

"Did somebody call me?"

"Yeah, your boyfriend did, ages ago—"

"Really, Angelina, it's like you didn't _want _to see me!"

"Damn, you caught me."

"Ah-Ha!"

"What's all this?"

"Oh, hi Neville, sorry about the mess, I was just trying to get rid of the—"

"Nargles, yes, I heard. Anybody else need help?"

"Actually, Neville, I found these—these _things _growing over the tops of my cabbages and I was wondering if you could have a look—"

"Yeah, show me where—"

"QUIET!"

"What was that?"

And just like that, everyone was silenced.

The noise they'd heard was the one they'd been waiting for all day, and ready or not, it was here. In one unit they moved to the tiny window above the sink and watched as the ancient Harley Davidson came roaring into view, descending from the clouds like an angel. They could barely see the man astride it, and not at all the little girl who was with him—or who they hoped was with him. Secretly, most of them were glad they could see yet—they were afraid of what they'd find. Harry was family to all of them, and while the rest of the magical community was amazed at whatever he did, the people at the Burrow were sorry. Their hearts broke to see him in the state he'd been in, feeling so alone when all of them were trying so hard to be with him. Nothing took hold of him at all, and certainly not like this had. Nobody said it out loud, but everyone worried about what would happen if this wasn't enough to pull him from the abyss.

Still one unit, heads moved with the motorcycle as it made its way lower and closer and lower still until it was rolling down the long dirt pathway in a cloud of dust. It had been moving pretty fast while it hit the ground, and it wasn't until it got right in front of the house that it stopped completely, and the driver, coughing, dismounted.

"Wait…" Ginny murmured. "Is she…?"

But for once, nobody answered her. They were all wondering the same thing. It was early March, and quite cold; Harry was wearing a heavy coat to protect himself from the winds. It looked even more bulky than usual. And there _was _something funny in the way he walked.

"He's got her in the jacket." Arthur stated.

Ginny snorted. "Like some kind of present."

Percy rolled his eyes in disgust. "Honestly, Ginny, you're level of maturity astounds me sometimes. That's a bloody _person _you're talking about."

"Oh yes, Perce, and you're the King of empathy, over here—"

"Guys, _move_!"

Ron and Hermione, shockingly in sync for such an opposite couple, barreled their way through the crowd of people before the others had yet recovered from their shock and were running to the door at top speed, out the door and hugging Harry on the other side of the window before the others had time to react. Hermione first, carefully around the neck, and Ron started to follow, but was stopped.

"Open the window!" Angelina hissed.

Hastily, Molly Weasley did so.

"—asleep. I don't—think we should wake her up. It was a long day for her…you know?" Harry was saying, his gooey eyes avoiding Ron's in embarrassment and looking to Hermione's for guidance.

In one motion, his audience inside melted.

"Harry, dear, you really ought to come inside!" Molly called. "I don't want my first grandchild catching a cold before I see her!"

"Grandchild!" Bill repeated, scandalized. "What's my kid, chopped liver?"

"Of course not, darling, but it isn't exactly born yet." Molly waved him off. "Hermione, bring them in! It looks like rain soon!"

As if on cue, a deep growl of thunder broke over the sky.

And suddenly, Harry was making a beeline for the house.

"Harry's not even _hers,_" Bill muttered. But it was good natured, and he met Harry at the door with all the others.

Harry, for his part, wanted nothing more in the world than to go upstairs to Ron's room and sleep through the next century. He was glad to see them all, this gaggle of broken families that had somehow knitted together at the torn out pieces to form a new one. He felt an unexpected twist of guilt as he stared into each of their overeager faces, still overwhelmed and craving the lonely, but…burdened.

In a good way.

"Er, hey," he grinned, feeling another unexpected emotion: bashfulness.

He moved to take off his coat, and Hermione and Fleur were on either side of him like magic and doing it for him. Bill and Ron rolled their eyes while Molly disappeared again to the kitchen, dragging Ginny with her to get things ready for supper. As usual when entering the Burrow after a long absence, Harry was ravenous.

"Here—Hermione—" he gently shrugged her off, careful; to keep one arm supporting the dozing body at his chest as he removed the other from his coat sleeve. The coat fell to the floor, revealing the toddler he was holding.

There was a collective gasp as they took in the sight of her, curled up like a cat against his chest. The atmosphere in the room flipped like a light switch, and suddenly they were all upon him, almost as if they didn't realize they were doing it, and wrestling each other—as quietly and disturbingly as possible, of course—to get a closer look. It was more than another connection to the ones they'd lost, more even than the irresistible face of a baby. It was just one of those things. . .and Harry understood completely. Hadn't he been the exact same way? Hadn't he loved her the moment he saw her, without knowing a thing about her or how he was going to raise her?

Still, though, it was hard not to be a bit bothered when Fleur reached out to stroke her curls, or when George picked up on of her tiny fingers to compare it to his with the scrutiny of a scientist. Harry leaned awkwardly against the door, already as far away from them all as was possible to get. They surged closer.

"She'd so damned _cute_," Angelina muttered, joining George in the examination.

Wordlessly, the others nodded and soon Harry was surrounded by roving forms, Heads pressed against each other to try and get a closer look while hands hovered uncertainly over her small body as if unsure whether or not to touch her when so many others were already doing it. It wouldn't do to wake her up. . .would it?

The answer, if anyone would bother asking her new guardian, was a resounding _no_. He pulled her up, tucking her head in the shallow valley between the round of his shoulder and his collarbone, gripping her more securely in his arms and trying to swat away as many hands as he could. "Guys!" he whispered, torn between amusement and annoyance. "Stop—we can't _breathe—_"

"Oh, hush, she's breathing just fine—"

"Yeah, shove off Harry, you've had all afternoon with her!"

"And she's asleep, how can we bother her when she's—"

A yawn. That was all it was, but it silenced a room full of demented witches and wizards. They watched her while she squirmed, first the yawn and then the stretch, finally picking her head up and blinking at them.

"Back off, guys, you're scaring her," Harry said worriedly.

At once—and for some, it was their first time—they did as they were told.

Harry situated her so he could see her face, and watched it to if she was, indeed, frightened by all the strangers. And she did, at first, appear to be distressed.

But then Molly Weasly came back.

"Oh, gosh, she's _gorgeous_! Come see your grandmother, darling, _yes_, that's right, dear—she's so beautiful!" She swept through the throng like thin air and had taken Scarlett in her arms before Harry had time to protest, alternating between cooing to the baby and praising her new father.

He wasn't thrilled at having his child ripped from him—and yes, gentle and motherly as Molly was—at least her her current, less than fierce state—tha t was what it had felt like—he couldn't argue with the results. Molly's swollen bosom had supported seven tiny bodies before Scarlett's, and the passing of time hadn't lessened her experience. Confused and frightened—and perhaps on the verge of tears—only seconds before, Scarlett was now nestling into Molly's arms and smiling uncertainly up at her, no longer quite as bothered by the idiots surrounding her.

"She really is the most breathtaking child I've ever seen," Molly told him.

"Hey!" George said, appearing from around the corner and looking highly affronted.

Harry smiled. "She looks exactly like Sirius."

"Sirius?" Hermione scoffed. "She looks like bleeding Snow White!"

Ron huffed. "Seriously, who _is _that?"

Ginny smirked. "Yeah…_Sirius_-ly…"

.

ooooooooooooooooooo

**I would love reviews! 3**


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